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had exposed
Madison’s shoulders and the tops of her breasts, and he’d been enchanted,
mesmerized, in love in the best possible way.   A fantasy he could dismiss with a snap of his fingers, but a
lush one while it lasted.
    That was, if he were smart.
    Right then he wasn’t feeling smart.   He’d killed two men today.   He’d told an inquisitive reporter too much of the truth and
too many lies as well, and allowed her to record it.   There were people skilled enough to hack their way through
the voice distortion, leaving him exposed.
    No, he needed to retrieve that recorder.   And smart or not, he needed to get inside Madison Banks and
see if he could make her come as hard as he was planning to.
    Simmons drove them home through the rain-damp streets, the lamplights
reflecting off the water and sending strange shadows into the car.   The chauffeur was driving fast, but
there were no paparazzi following them.   They were a bunch of pussies—give them a heavy rain and they’d
rather spend their time in some bar, drinking, than chasing their meal tickets.
    Just as well.   He didn’t
want cameras anywhere around him tonight.   Not when he considered what he was planning to do.
    He carried Tessa’s frail body into the back elevator used for the
hotel’s more famous guests, up to her suite of rooms.   He laid her down on the bed, stripping off her clothes.   She wasn’t wearing underwear, and she
didn’t own any nightclothes.   He
pulled the covers up to her chin, then brushed her hair out of her exquisite
face.   Her handlers would yell at
her tomorrow for sleeping in her makeup, and she’d pout at him, and he’d enact
the enraged lover and then there would be the tender rapprochement.   He could play the part perfectly.
    He brushed a kiss against her forehead, then stripped off his jacket,
tie and vest and tossed them across a chair.   For a brief moment he considered his work clothes –
the all concealing black would be perfect for what he’d suddenly decided, but
there was some, unlikely part of him that was repulsed by the idea.   Sex and death.   Fucking and killing.   So different, and yet so alike.
    He shoved his key in his pocket and headed out, the hunter in search
of a different kind of prey.   Knowing he had lost his mind.

 
    Maddy took another shower but it did absolutely no good.   Her skin still felt hypersensitized .   Was there such a thing as Spanish
Fly?   She felt as if she’d ingested
some.   She was aroused, on fire,
edgy and restless.   The thought of
going to bed was unbearable – it was still early, after all.   Her mind was going round and round, and
the more she tried to avoid it the more obvious it became.
    Sex.   It was all she could
think about.   It had started with
that terrifying interview, the sly questions that the anonymous, distorted
voice had asked oh-so-gently instead of the other way around.   And then, mere hours later, D’Angelo’s dark eyes, his touch on her skin, his outrageous
conversation.  
    She was hardly his type, she thought with a rough laugh.   Her breasts were full and high, her
hips rounded, her thighs and calves muscled from walking but definitely
there.   She was a woman, not a
stick-thin waif, and she was comfortable in her body.
    Except when she thought of his eyes, comparing her to Tessa Parker.
    Fuck that, she thought, pushing him from her mind with her usual firm
discipline.   She wasn’t interested
in having sex with either an assassin or a playboy.    She was just interested in having sex.
    Which was perfectly normal.   An appetite, like any other, and it wasn’t her fault that it had come
over her like a PMS craving for chocolate.   She could deal with it.  
    She took the ancient flannel robe from the bathroom door and wrapped
it around her plain white underwear.   She’d stolen it from Drake, and it was so soft and comfortable it would
wrap her in a cocoon of safety.   How could you feel aroused in white